Crepuscular
by Senoritatito
Summary: Happily married for three years, Harry and Draco live in a London flat. Soon, however, Harry finds himself torn from his lover by a new and growing attraction - to a man whom Harry never suspected he'd be drawn to.
1. Default Chapter

Crepuscular by Tito

* * *

It was Tuesday. It always rained on Tuesdays.

Harry sat at his window, watching the glass fog and clear with his breath. Outside glassy puddles reflected the oyster sky, distorting cloud patterns with ripples as the drops fell, one by one, into the standing water.

He sighed; the cloud on the glass crescendoed. Why it was raining he did not know; other than that it was Tuesday, he saw no reason. This season contrasted sharply with the drought-filled summers of his teens; the rainfall was, undoubtedly, unusual.

The worn cherry chair creaked as he rose. He should have dinner on soon; Draco would be arriving home from work in a while, and Harry always had dinner ready. It was a given. After three years of living in the same London flat, things became routine. Harry arrived home at six from his job at the Ministry, where he worked for an aging Arthur Weasley, whereas Draco returned around seven-thirty from his Diagon Alley Quidditch shop. Of course Harry cooked; his partner had no clue how even to boil water. Spoiled little rich kid. It astonished Harry that his lover hadn't brought a house elf with him when they got married - but then again, Lucius had been quite particular about keeping the entire Malfoy fortune from its rightful heir when the younger Malfoy turned sides.

Harry opened the cupboard with a flick of his wand. A pot. A bag of spaghettini. An onion, some garlic, and a can of tomato paste. A deep red, squashy tomato. He watched with satisfaction as the pot boiled itself, onion and tomatoes separated automatically into halves, then quarters, then eighths. Footsteps up the stairs. A turn of the lock, a creak of hinges, and a silhouette in the doorway which Harry identified as his husband as he stuck his head out the kitchen door.

The lovers shared an embrace and a quick, soft kiss.

"How was business today?"

"Slow."

Harry turned around and busied himself with chopping herbs. No wand for this, but a simple, Muggle knife.

"What's for eating?"

"Look in the pot." Draco turned to the happily simmering vessel of tomato sauce.

"You remembered!"

"What?"

"My favorite rainy-day food."

"Spaghetti?"

"I used to have it when I lived at home. Mother never liked it much, but it was Lucius' favorite."

"And you still like it?"

"I still like nice clothes, regardless of my father's fondness for them."

"Good point."

Harry threw a handful of green into the pot of red. A few minutes passed; the clock ticked, the steam hissed, the chair creaked again under Harry's weight.

"You look like a drowned ferret."

"I'll never live that down, will I?"

"You'll always be my ferret. But go change and dry your hair before you catch a cold or something. You're always sick."

"You'd think wizards would have already invented a more effective cold remedy than Pepper-Up. But no. You'd also think that more time would be spent on hair-care products, but I still have to make my own."

"Have I ever told you that you are the most vain person on the face of this planet?"

"Several times."

They shared another kiss, and Draco disappeared into the bedroom down the hall.

The lid and the pot clacked after a violent burst of steam. The spatter of red on the cream tile backsplash grew more pronounced as the sauce simmered on.

He looked out the window. Shimmering sheets of water now fell from the sky; the puddles reflected fragments of the surrounding grey buildings interrupted by each new drop. The cloud on the glass faded and condensed again; he traced his lover's name in the steam with his forefinger.

The streetlights flickered on. The saturated dusk was suddenly illuminated, the raindrops suddenly drops of molten gold.

Draco emerged in the doorframe, clad in his satin boxers and faded, tight black singlet. Harry smiled. The timer chimed twice. He flicked his wand at the pot of noodles and it jumped over to the sink to drain itself. Another flick, the sauce filled a red-rimmed bowl. Again, it landed on the table with a light thud. The silverware jumped.

Draco retrieved a bottle of shiraz out of the cabinet, popping it open and pouring two glasses. He seated himself; the chair groaned. He handed Harry the glass.

They ate in silence for a while, Harry glancing out at the crepuscular exterior of the flat every so often, noticing that the rain had intensified yet.

"Have you bought Granger and Weasley a gift yet?"

"The shower's not until Saturday. What do you get a baby wizard?"

"I could use my discount on a toy broomstick or something."

"Cute. And maybe some baby Quidditch robes."

"A little too cute."

"No, really, I think it'd be great."

"You know, I'm not exactly looking forward to seeing the entire Weasley clan."

"Not your favorite people, I know, but they're my best friends. It's their baby shower. It'll only be for a few hours - and plus, there'll be cake. I know you love cake."

"Fair enough. Only, it'll take more than cake to really compensate for my lost time." The blonde grinned slyly, batting his eyelashes.

Harry watched as Draco helped himself to fourths.

"It still astounds me that you eat so much and can't gain a pound. You sucked that up like a Hoover, and you're still eating."

"What's a Hoover?" "Muggles use them to clean houses. It sucks up dirt out of carpet - oh, never mind."

"Muggles are pointless."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But you seem to forget one good thing to come from them."

Draco circled the table to sit on his lover's lap. The chair protested loudly.

"And that would be?"

"Me, silly."

Draco brushed his lips against his love's, then alighted on them. He began to suck lightly at the lower, gently, then harder. Harry flicked out his tongue and Draco met it. The kiss grew more passionate; Draco twisted himself over to straddle Harry. The chair's complaints became rhythmic as the lighter man ground against his lover. Harry's hands began to roam Draco's back, one snaking underneath the waistband of his boxers to stroke his porcelain posterior, the other entwining in platinum tresses and massaging the scalp. One of the two matched the chair's moans, being steadily swept away on a tide of pleasure. The chair let out one last complaint as the pair rose, slowly traversing from the kitchen to the bedroom.

The door slammed shut.

A few hours later, Harry found himself at his bedroom window. Draco had, at last, fallen asleep, and Harry's insomniac disposition forced him to find an outlet for his attention. The windows glowed golden from the sodium-vapor streetlights. He could not see the individual orbs - the fog on the windows, a product of passion, not boredom, had not yet faded. He stalked out of the bedroom, naked, and settled himself in his study. He pulled out his brushes and watercolors, and began to paint.

* * *

Author's note:

1. Crepuscular: relating to twilight or shadowy areas.

2. This fic is dedicated to my fellow H/D shippers of the Harry Potter Discussion Group, who work so hard to freak out Mrs. McG.

3. Although it starts out H/D, this may well turn out H/D/ another surprise canon character, whose name I shall not disclose at present for sake of SUSPENSE! Or SURPRISE!

4. If you review, you may get a haiku. Actually, the Haiku's on the review page. Incentive. I like feedback. Feed me back - I fed you fic.


	2. Chapter 2

The subterranean windows of the Ministry confirmed Harry's superstition about weekly weather patterns.

Tuesday, and it was raining.

The shower had gone well, he thought. Hermione, very pregnant, cooed in delight over the miniature robes and broom. Ron, very proud, proclaimed his son's predicted abilities: he would be the smartest and most studious Keeper in the history of Hogwarts. The joyful grandparents joked that little Gregor would start off the long chain of male Weasley-Granger progeny, and each Weasley sibling murmured plans in his other's ear about their future children. Ginny, alone, gazed at Harry and Draco from across the table. Harry and Draco gazed at each other – short distance – and smiled.

Percy, of course, had to work that day.

Percy, of course, had to work for every family occasion.

Harry passed him in the corridor that Tuesday, and said Hello. Percy passed by and said Hello. They continued in their opposite direction.

Harry had to wonder about Percy. What made him tick? Why was he never with his family? Why couldn't he see that they still loved him, after all, that he was his mother's child and his father's son? Was he that… depressed? Isolated? Self-conscious? Workaholic? Did he know that they wanted him back, little Percy, as he had been in childhood and hadn't been in early adulthood?

Draco had sat in Percy's spot that Saturday. He had… decided he would come, after all, at the last minute, so Harry told the Weasleys. Harry felt guilty about not telling them earlier. The gnaw persisted past the Saturday into that Tuesday. Ah, procrastination. He was just as bad now as he had been about the Second Task, although RSVPs for baby showers were nothing nearly as grave as facing an unknown and undoubtedly life-threatening task.

He heaved a sigh. The postits on his cubicle fluttered a little, magenta and lime and yellow balls with silver wings that fluttered regardless of his sighs. The gray windows grayed more and Harry could feel the moisture from the outside permeating the interior of his subterranean Ministry workspace.

Three more hours of this.

Never before had Harry felt such strong sympathy for Mr. Weasley. Being Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department was, despite all the fun and tinkering involved, a very raw deal. His Memory Charm was finely honed, his bookcase jammed with ledgers full of accounts of overheating heated toilet seats, green-flamed propane torches that froze things rather than combusting them, self-spiking punch bowls, reversed car horns that blasted right in the driver's ear. He, luckily, had been able to stop Fred and George from publishing their Field Guide to Muggle Baiting with the lovely piece of blackmail that he was, after all, the original financial backer of their shop. They said he rained on their parade.

He muddled through five more reports from his ever-growing stack: two hours until he would go home. Three and a half until he would see his beloved.

He researched the normal malfunctions of iPods, and how to go about ordering one for an early birthday present to himself – three more hours until he would see that lovely golden head.

Footsteps up the corridor, and the rub of trouser leg on trouser leg on robe. A balding, red-gray head above his cubicle wall.

"Harry, how's the report on dissolving spoons going?"

"Spoons?"

"I need it for tomorrow. The hearing's set for eleven."

"It'll be done by six."

"Right-o."

A shrinking back and dark blue robes.

One and a half hours.

Folders flew across the desk opening and closing. The right one, of course the very last he found, lay at the bottom of the pile.

One hour.

The clock struck five.

Scribbling of quill on parchment.

The clock struck five-forty-five.

Still scribbling.

Five fifty. One hour and forty minutes before Draco.

Signature. Arthur Weasley's distinctive gait. Five fifty five.

"Here you are, Arthur. Signed, sealed, and delivered."

Harry knew he'd done better Divination homework, but all that mattered was getting home to see his Draco. He gathered his things – robes, hat, briefcase, umbrella. Hat? Not his. Must belong to old Perkins. Oh, the smell. Like old… mothballs. Not his.

Into the golden grilled lift, into the blue main hall, into the fireplace facing the fixed Fountain, and into the comfort of his own home.

Why was Draco already on the couch?

"Short day at work, love?"

"… You could say that."

"What happened?"

Painful grimace. "I've been dismissed."

Quizzical glance.

"I got into a fight with a customer."

Harry's voice rose. "And what did he do to provoke you? He better have provoked you."

It wasn't team rivalry, Harry knew. Draco had learned to banter, not bully, when his customers belittled his beloved teams.

"It was Wood."

"Oh."

Wood had notorious protection issues about Harry. Of course, this greatly hindered their relationship when they were together – Wood was greatly opposed to the idea of Harry working. Harry, of course, belonged in the home, where no ill could befall him. Wood would work and support them both while Harry fixed the house.

Harry didn't want to be kept. And much as he was a good housekeeper, he detested the constraint of permanent maidwork.

And since Harry and Draco's relationship had been all over the papers recently, it was no surprise to Harry that Wood went for the blood.

Belatedly, he saw the purple-black spot hidden behind the flaxen fringe. He strolled over to the couch – it absorbed him on contact. He found his bearings after moments of cushiony disorientation, examining Draco's bruise. The flesh underneath had hardened a little, had swollen up, and turned aubergine.

"I'll kill that man, I swear I will."

"I suppose I'll have to find a new job. Not that my references'll be that fabulous."

"My ministry job will take care of us – "

"I can't stand the thought of lazing at home all day with nothing to do, cleaning and waiting for you to come home – "

Harry couldn't either. After all, that's why he hadn't wanted to live with Wood, wasn't it? He didn't like the constraints of perpetual domesticity – life at the Dursleys had left the wrong impression.

"I don't want you home all day either. What do _you_ want to do? What do you _really_ want to do? I want you to be happy. I don't care if my meals are cooked for me – the way it is now, they certainly aren't."

"I could be a hair model."

"Vanity: Draco Malfoy's greatest weakness or his strongest strength?"

"Shut it, you."

"Were you _serious_?"

"Why wouldn't I be? It's a viable option."

"Modeling work is sporadic. Although, come to think of it, you do have that specific primadonna attitude about you."

"I was _made_ for modeling."

"Right."

At that moment, Draco found himself being sucked in by the squishy greenness that was the couch, aided by Harry's insistent and zealous pressure. He stretched out his neck, and let his lover take him away.

Draco would, Harry reflected as he raided the refrigerator for a late-night post-shag pickle, make a very good hair model. Even the bruise, ugly though it was, brought out the streaks of silver and gold. And he did have a natural pout.


End file.
